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WIP Amnesty, Day 13
So, by the time I hit House fandom, halfway through season one and months after the Christmas episode aired, the Christmas-episode-tag-porn story had already been written at least twice. I was still determined to write it again, only with offputting verisimilitude and a weird relationship dynamic (although, ha ha, now quaintly far less fucked up than canon). This stopped dead in midsentence due to my inability to write porn with that setup. It's really no wonder the first story I finished in that fandom was gen, is it?
House/Wilson, almost NC-17. But not. Post-that first season Christmas episode, with the smiling and Chinese food and piano playing, remember that? Good times.
Misrule
Wilson asked him to play something "seasonal," so he started plinking out "Dreidel, Dreidel, Dreidel." Wilson laughed and said, "Chanukah ended a week ago, that's not seasonal anymore," as he left the room. House smiled and switched to Christmas carols, listening as Wilson threw out the takeout containers and then began to move around the kitchen. Inspecting, probably, the way he did when he thought House wasn't paying attention.
"Holly Jolly Christmas" covered Wilson's sweep of the kitchen, and "O Tannenbaum" and "O Holy Night" covered his rifling through the medicine cabinet and night stand drawers. House started "Silent Night" when he sensed Wilson standing in the doorway, and played it through softly, all the way to the end, and then turned his head and waited for some sign--had he passed muster? Should he make another joke? Or...
Wilson came over, setting one hand casually on the back of his neck while he reached over House's head to steal a sip of his scotch. House kept still, waiting, until Wilson leaned down, looping his arms around House's shoulders and pressing a light kiss to his cheek. "You want to come unwrap your present?"
Or this. A kiss, so there was no mistaking the offer no matter how much scotch he'd had, but on the cheek, so that he wasn't immediately pressed to accept it. They'd worked this out to a fine balance by now. It was Wilson's to offer, and his to accept or not.
Whether it was the Vicodin or the pain or just the getting old, he didn't miss sex much, or at least he didn't miss orgasms much. What was that charming statistic? Muscles tense during orgasm as though lifting three times your body weight--too bad no one had told the dead muscles they were excused from the effort. These days, getting off was reliably accompanied by a sensation not unlike being hit in his bad leg with a sledgehammer. Built in aversion therapy.
Every time he came--once he could see and breathe and think again--he told himself he'd learned his lesson, but there always seemed to be a next time. It didn't happen often, but some mornings he woke up hard, and in the drifting moment when the pain in his leg was nothing more than a strain from running too much the day before, he'd go for it. House was beginning to suspect his body was very, very stupid and wouldn't last long without him.
He tilted his head back, looking up at Wilson as he leaned back into the warmth of Wilson's body, strong and steady at his back, and Wilson shifted closer, until House could feel his hard-on. "I haven't got anything for you," House said, half acquiescing, half reminding.
He didn't miss orgasms much, and all things considered he didn't particularly want company when he did have them, but he missed sex. Other people's bodies--less stupid than his own, he suspected, or blithely ignorant of just how stupid they were--were as attractive to him as they'd ever been. Wilson understood that, but Wilson could be pushy sometimes, generous to a fault.
Wilson smiled down at House and rocked his hips, his hard-on sliding against House's back through the layers of their clothing, clearly unfazed. "Chanukah ended a week ago. I already got everything on my wish list." House smiled a little, because he knew that was on Wilson's wish list, and there were things Wilson didn't ask for that House couldn't deny him.
"Yeah," he said, and raised one hand to Wilson's arm, letting Wilson brace him as he got to his feet. House kept his face turned away from Wilson, though he could feel body heat all along his side and Wilson's breath on his cheek, and reached for his scotch. He'd had enough to contraindicate his bedtime dose of Vicodin, so he might as well finish it.
House turned his head as he set the glass back down with a perfectly steady hand and let Wilson's mouth find his--not dry at all, and maybe alcohol was a social lubricant in more ways than one. Wilson's mouth tasted like scotch and fortune cookies, and House smiled into the kiss and thought the 'in bed' part was probably included right in the fortune this time. He kept his eyes closed even when Wilson broke the kiss, and stood still, waiting, leaning his weight on Wilson's arm no more and no less than he had a moment before. Wilson didn't say anything, didn't move, and finally House opened his eyes to see Wilson watching him, dark eyes bright and intent, lips slightly parted.
House rolled his eyes and muttered, "What the hell, it's Christmas," as he leaned in for another kiss. If Wilson wanted to kiss, he could worry about stubble-burn. Wilson's open mouth curved into a smile under his as Wilson slid one arm around House's waist. House leaned into the contact, letting Wilson take more of his weight and feeling the heat of Wilson's hard-on against his hip, solid and sure.
And maybe he didn't mind the kissing so much, when he was in the middle of it. Wilson's mouth was soft and hot against his, and his kisses were broken with smiles. House curled his arm around Wilson's neck, steadying himself to stay a while, licking deeper, chasing the heat and the taste of Wilson that was always familiar, no matter what they'd done or drunk beforehand. He sensed the tension in Wilson's body before he took a step back, and managed to step with him instead of stumbling, pulling his mouth away from Wilson's to check that their path was clear.
"I think I can do this," Wilson said, sounding amused, steering them backward as though he knew the place well enough to navigate it blind. House gave him a sideways skeptical look and kept watching the floor as they made their tangled and limping way to the bedroom. Wilson had done more than check the drawers: the bed was half-made, the covers more or less on the mattress and the pillows at the top, erasing the usual tangle molded to the shape of his head and shoulder and knee. He could have called Wilson on the presumption, but that would have meant acknowledging out loud that his bed normally didn't see any action beyond his solitary, careful descent onto its surface each night. There were a lot of things about this that they didn't say out loud, and that was one of them.
Still, the tidied bed left him feeling off-balance in a way that had nothing to do with his leg or the steadiness of Wilson's arm under his hand. House turned his head and kissed Wilson again roughly, pressing the advantage of Wilson's startled-open mouth.
House was usually reluctant to kiss, but Wilson liked it. House wanted to please Wilson; Wilson didn't want to discommode House. Kissing was therefore a matter of careful balance, and most nights, House left the finding of that balance up to Wilson. He was an oncologist; his life's work was poisoning people just enough.
But then... Wilson had to make those choices all day, and it was Christmas, Saturnalia, Misrule: tonight beggars were kings, and James Wilson, just once, shouldn't have to decide a thing. That much House could give him.
He gentled the kiss, licking softly at Wilson's mouth, and raised a hand to Wilson's face, trusting himself to the steadiness of the hands on his back and arm as he cupped the smooth curve of Wilson's cheek. He tugged Wilson's tie loose with his other hand, finally drawing back to toss it onto a chair. Wilson turned his head and kissed House's wrist, but House pulled away from the ticklish touch, using both hands to unbutton Wilson's shirt and push it off. It involved an odd little ballet, balancing upright as Wilson got his hands free of his sleeves, and their eyes met over matching smiles.
House lowered himself to sit on the edge of the bed then, shucking out of his turtleneck as Wilson, still standing, pulled off his t-shirt. House tossed his shirt onto the chair with Wilson's tie, but Wilson dropped his on the floor. He didn't have to give a second's thought to the logistics of picking it up again, after all.
House didn't give it a second's thought either, just sat back and watched Wilson. Bare to the waist, he stood--both feet planted evenly--and stretched
andthentheyhadsex, in which House kept his pants on and didn't come, and then Wilson kind of draped himself over House and went to sleep, and after a while House went to sleep too, feeling really less bad for himself than usual, and in the morning, before Wilson snuck out of bed, he gave House his morning dose of Vicodin and a last kiss goodbye.
Lord, what a crazy romantic kid I was.
House/Wilson, almost NC-17. But not. Post-that first season Christmas episode, with the smiling and Chinese food and piano playing, remember that? Good times.
Misrule
Wilson asked him to play something "seasonal," so he started plinking out "Dreidel, Dreidel, Dreidel." Wilson laughed and said, "Chanukah ended a week ago, that's not seasonal anymore," as he left the room. House smiled and switched to Christmas carols, listening as Wilson threw out the takeout containers and then began to move around the kitchen. Inspecting, probably, the way he did when he thought House wasn't paying attention.
"Holly Jolly Christmas" covered Wilson's sweep of the kitchen, and "O Tannenbaum" and "O Holy Night" covered his rifling through the medicine cabinet and night stand drawers. House started "Silent Night" when he sensed Wilson standing in the doorway, and played it through softly, all the way to the end, and then turned his head and waited for some sign--had he passed muster? Should he make another joke? Or...
Wilson came over, setting one hand casually on the back of his neck while he reached over House's head to steal a sip of his scotch. House kept still, waiting, until Wilson leaned down, looping his arms around House's shoulders and pressing a light kiss to his cheek. "You want to come unwrap your present?"
Or this. A kiss, so there was no mistaking the offer no matter how much scotch he'd had, but on the cheek, so that he wasn't immediately pressed to accept it. They'd worked this out to a fine balance by now. It was Wilson's to offer, and his to accept or not.
Whether it was the Vicodin or the pain or just the getting old, he didn't miss sex much, or at least he didn't miss orgasms much. What was that charming statistic? Muscles tense during orgasm as though lifting three times your body weight--too bad no one had told the dead muscles they were excused from the effort. These days, getting off was reliably accompanied by a sensation not unlike being hit in his bad leg with a sledgehammer. Built in aversion therapy.
Every time he came--once he could see and breathe and think again--he told himself he'd learned his lesson, but there always seemed to be a next time. It didn't happen often, but some mornings he woke up hard, and in the drifting moment when the pain in his leg was nothing more than a strain from running too much the day before, he'd go for it. House was beginning to suspect his body was very, very stupid and wouldn't last long without him.
He tilted his head back, looking up at Wilson as he leaned back into the warmth of Wilson's body, strong and steady at his back, and Wilson shifted closer, until House could feel his hard-on. "I haven't got anything for you," House said, half acquiescing, half reminding.
He didn't miss orgasms much, and all things considered he didn't particularly want company when he did have them, but he missed sex. Other people's bodies--less stupid than his own, he suspected, or blithely ignorant of just how stupid they were--were as attractive to him as they'd ever been. Wilson understood that, but Wilson could be pushy sometimes, generous to a fault.
Wilson smiled down at House and rocked his hips, his hard-on sliding against House's back through the layers of their clothing, clearly unfazed. "Chanukah ended a week ago. I already got everything on my wish list." House smiled a little, because he knew that was on Wilson's wish list, and there were things Wilson didn't ask for that House couldn't deny him.
"Yeah," he said, and raised one hand to Wilson's arm, letting Wilson brace him as he got to his feet. House kept his face turned away from Wilson, though he could feel body heat all along his side and Wilson's breath on his cheek, and reached for his scotch. He'd had enough to contraindicate his bedtime dose of Vicodin, so he might as well finish it.
House turned his head as he set the glass back down with a perfectly steady hand and let Wilson's mouth find his--not dry at all, and maybe alcohol was a social lubricant in more ways than one. Wilson's mouth tasted like scotch and fortune cookies, and House smiled into the kiss and thought the 'in bed' part was probably included right in the fortune this time. He kept his eyes closed even when Wilson broke the kiss, and stood still, waiting, leaning his weight on Wilson's arm no more and no less than he had a moment before. Wilson didn't say anything, didn't move, and finally House opened his eyes to see Wilson watching him, dark eyes bright and intent, lips slightly parted.
House rolled his eyes and muttered, "What the hell, it's Christmas," as he leaned in for another kiss. If Wilson wanted to kiss, he could worry about stubble-burn. Wilson's open mouth curved into a smile under his as Wilson slid one arm around House's waist. House leaned into the contact, letting Wilson take more of his weight and feeling the heat of Wilson's hard-on against his hip, solid and sure.
And maybe he didn't mind the kissing so much, when he was in the middle of it. Wilson's mouth was soft and hot against his, and his kisses were broken with smiles. House curled his arm around Wilson's neck, steadying himself to stay a while, licking deeper, chasing the heat and the taste of Wilson that was always familiar, no matter what they'd done or drunk beforehand. He sensed the tension in Wilson's body before he took a step back, and managed to step with him instead of stumbling, pulling his mouth away from Wilson's to check that their path was clear.
"I think I can do this," Wilson said, sounding amused, steering them backward as though he knew the place well enough to navigate it blind. House gave him a sideways skeptical look and kept watching the floor as they made their tangled and limping way to the bedroom. Wilson had done more than check the drawers: the bed was half-made, the covers more or less on the mattress and the pillows at the top, erasing the usual tangle molded to the shape of his head and shoulder and knee. He could have called Wilson on the presumption, but that would have meant acknowledging out loud that his bed normally didn't see any action beyond his solitary, careful descent onto its surface each night. There were a lot of things about this that they didn't say out loud, and that was one of them.
Still, the tidied bed left him feeling off-balance in a way that had nothing to do with his leg or the steadiness of Wilson's arm under his hand. House turned his head and kissed Wilson again roughly, pressing the advantage of Wilson's startled-open mouth.
House was usually reluctant to kiss, but Wilson liked it. House wanted to please Wilson; Wilson didn't want to discommode House. Kissing was therefore a matter of careful balance, and most nights, House left the finding of that balance up to Wilson. He was an oncologist; his life's work was poisoning people just enough.
But then... Wilson had to make those choices all day, and it was Christmas, Saturnalia, Misrule: tonight beggars were kings, and James Wilson, just once, shouldn't have to decide a thing. That much House could give him.
He gentled the kiss, licking softly at Wilson's mouth, and raised a hand to Wilson's face, trusting himself to the steadiness of the hands on his back and arm as he cupped the smooth curve of Wilson's cheek. He tugged Wilson's tie loose with his other hand, finally drawing back to toss it onto a chair. Wilson turned his head and kissed House's wrist, but House pulled away from the ticklish touch, using both hands to unbutton Wilson's shirt and push it off. It involved an odd little ballet, balancing upright as Wilson got his hands free of his sleeves, and their eyes met over matching smiles.
House lowered himself to sit on the edge of the bed then, shucking out of his turtleneck as Wilson, still standing, pulled off his t-shirt. House tossed his shirt onto the chair with Wilson's tie, but Wilson dropped his on the floor. He didn't have to give a second's thought to the logistics of picking it up again, after all.
House didn't give it a second's thought either, just sat back and watched Wilson. Bare to the waist, he stood--both feet planted evenly--and stretched
andthentheyhadsex, in which House kept his pants on and didn't come, and then Wilson kind of draped himself over House and went to sleep, and after a while House went to sleep too, feeling really less bad for himself than usual, and in the morning, before Wilson snuck out of bed, he gave House his morning dose of Vicodin and a last kiss goodbye.
Lord, what a crazy romantic kid I was.